Howl
by Totschafe
Summary: Hunters are like wolves without purpose. They are purported beasts; savage and monstrous. However, they have been proven to be the most intelligent, and perhaps in lieu of that, the most emotional.
1. With Bloody Feet

For awhile now, I've been trying to come up with a good plot for an L4D fic, and one thankfully came to me! It started off as just practice to see if I could write from the perspective of a Hunter (my favorite Infected) and soon turned into a story idea, which will probably do a couple twists and turns on me before it finishes up!

The title is from the song 'Howl' by Florence and the Machine, which not only is a beautiful song in general, but also can be seen as a great parallel to a Hunter.

So I hope whoever reads this enjoys! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Left 4 Dead or Left 4 Dead 2. Valve does, and thank heavens because players might hate me for throwing in packs of Hunters on each campaign. :'D

* * *

_The saints can't help me now._

_The ropes have been unbound._

_I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground_

-'Howl' by Florence and the Machine

* * *

The Hunter could not remember what his name had been, nor what his life had been like. The only inkling to a past life was flickering memories of the Infection beginning and plaguing him in a slow, steady crawl to ravage his nervous system. He remembered feeling like he was burning from the inside out, and feeling scared of anything that was offered to cool him down. Coldness meant death, whereas the heat was life. The Hunter had once wanted to live, and that want had not been fulfilled. The heat within him had destroyed him. The memories ended at his destruction, and now his life was completely dedicated to being a Hunter.

He moved with his brothers, perching on corners of buildings like French grotesques, snarling with bloody mouths, awaiting another victim ever unready to be destroyed, just as they had all been. They did not devour their victims like wolves, but instead satiated their hunger by tearing the life from their victims, hooking their long claws into the skin, under ribs, and into organs. The blood in their mouths was often their own, as they vomited or fought one another for territory. They were wolves without purpose; moving like dogs, living like monsters. They could still feel the thrill of a leap and the excited state of a kill, as hearts furiously beat under their claws and beneath their mouths, fluttering like caged birds before dying out.

The Hunter was like all the rest, marked with tape and blood. He could understand the living when they spoke, and his brothers could do the same. They were smart creatures, not empty-headed like a Tank, and not one-track-minded like a Charger. The Hunters knew their purpose and knew how to pin their prey in such a state of hopelessness by using their own intelligence against them. When the Hunter heard someone mention his presence, he would fall silent and attempt to blend in with his surroundings. He would snarl at being berated, screech when beckoned, and howl in vengeance when one of his brothers would fall. Before the living would fall, many of them would exclaim their surprise at the intelligence of the Hunter, of the agility and flexibility, and curse him with their final breaths for being what he was. Tearing into those who cursed him felt like a fruitful thing, and there was no more pride in what he did than when he destroyed those who would scorn him.

His hunting grounds were expansive, being the smoldering remains of what was once a thriving town. The sickness had reduced the town to a stinking corpse, with signposts and girders decomposing to the state of rotting ribs, simmering in a cesspool of corpses and blood that flowed into the sewers. Sickly-sweet odors of death and decay always alerted the Hunter of where home truly was, and he thrived among the morbid landscape. Wandering Survivors would walk among the streets, their eyes wide and their breaths hitched as they held guns tightly with shaking hands, wondering if this was the correct route to safety. As far as the Hunter was concerned, the route to safety had rotted away as well, and the wanderers were as helpless as mice among snakes. Their screams would echo throughout the buildings as he tore them apart, piece by piece. A cacophony of stray and useless bullets would ricochet off some of his favorite perches as Survivors attempted to ward him off. However, he was territorial. They were unwelcome as much as they were the main course to his feast of welcome. The sounds they made were sustenance enough.

Nevertheless, the life he lived sometimes encroached on the infection-riddled remains of his mind. His home of choice was once an old furniture store, and he made a nesting area of discarded blankets and a worn faux-suede couch, though anything served as comfortable. As he would lay in his den, his subconscious would sometimes return with fervor and deploy the flickers of his past in quick succession before fading away before he could grasp what he had seen. The heat that would wax and wane within him would sometimes torture him deep into his rest, leaving him exhausted and unwilling to hunt when the time came. His brothers would come into his den and smell the sickness on him, stronger than what they smelled like. Like dogs, they would nudge and paw at him, beckoning him to join, but he would roll onto his side, his back to them, and refuse without a sound. Within a day, he would return to his pack and his grounds, claws flexing and muscles rippling as he awaited his prey. His brothers did not have the mind to question, but simply appreciated his help when they tore down another slew of the living.

He remembered one man-around thirty or so with a healthy face and a determined expression-who came through with another hefty group, their blood singing with fear while they walked under the flickering, dying lights lining the streets. The Hunter moved, and so did the man, holding up a shotgun that shone like silver and blasted out a round like a mythical dragon breathing fire. It was the only weapon to ever wound the Hunter, and he retreated to the shadows, mouth moving furiously while he gnashed his teeth to pick the shimmering bullet from his shoulder. When his self-surgery proved to be a bloody success, he stalked the group's trail once again, but his movements were crude and clumsy. The man must have known he was there, because the shotgun was once again centered on him, and for the first time in his existence as a beast of the shadows, he felt helpless.

But the man did not fire. Instead, he gazed into the tangled brush the Hunter hid in, his eyes focused on the very spot the Infected sat. The Hunter knew the man saw him and knew he was there, but he only shook his head and proceeded without another word. For a long, hindered moment, there was nothing but silence as the Hunter sat concealed in the comforting darkness. Suddenly, he heard a chorus of screeches and screams of those who were once living. One of his brothers let out a howl of victory-a howl that the Hunter was accustomed to hearing. However, he did not respond, nor approach the sight of the massacre. Even in his mind plagued by the feverish disease and decimated by animalistic instinct, he couldn't shake the dull, throbbing feeling of the bullet wound in his shoulder, nor erase the image of the man gazing at him before turning away. What had the man thought of the Hunter? Why did he let that one go when he knew his life would be short?

Those thoughts swam in tandem with the usual cluster of murderous thoughts, rendered to basic terms like 'kill', 'rip', 'claw'. He hobbled back to his den, growling at almost every step before he finally leaped onto his familiar perch in front of the upstairs window where the couch was in easy reach. However, when he heard another victory howl of his brothers, he was suddenly compelled to respond. Just like the bastardized wolf he and his brethren were so often compared to, he tilted his head back and let out a different sort of howl. Instead of being clear with triumph and almost raw with pure excitement, his came out as more of a wail, raspy from his rotted vocal cords and somehow mournful. When the sound echoed down the streets, he sat there just a while longer before slipping inside to the dank room and curling onto his couch, the only sounds now coming from his bleeding shoulder as it creaked in its socket and dripped onto a growing puddle.


	2. Blood is Singing with Your Voice

So I took a week-long vacation and managed to write this in the time I should have spent relaxing on the beach. I was very fond of it, though, and I hope everyone else is as well.

Also, I meant to say this earlier, but the Hunter's aversion to cold is very common in rabies cases, in which some victims develop hydrophobia and because almost terrified of water. I'm rolling with the mention that the Green Flu is like mutated rabies. Other traits he still carries are feverish moments, drowsiness, and malaise (the French term for feeling extremely out of place and feeling uncomfortable in your own skin).

And finally, this Hunter _does_ have eyes. This isn't for any particular reason except I find it much easier to write from a seeing perspective. Yes, I am that lazy. xD

* * *

_Now there's no holding back. _

_I'm aching to attack._

_My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out._

* * *

Morning light filtered through the slats in between plywood coverings on the windows of the old furniture store. The Hunter stirred awake, sniffing out the air as he was accustomed to do as to see if any intruders had come in during his rest. The only smell that greeted him was the familiar dank, moldy smell of dampened wooden walls and furniture, mixed with the coppery tang of blood. Content with this, he slid off the couch and onto the floor, lurking to one of the windows and sniffing through a crack in the wood. The smell of decay greeted him and he turned away from it, knowing that there had been no one else out, not even his brothers.

With almost a defeated walk, he crawled over to the top of the stairs, looking down at a bookcase shoved in front of the door. The humans he had found at the time had tried to keep Infected from coming upstairs, while foolishly forgetting the climbing abilities of some. He had smelled them first, and soon, each one of the living fell under his claws. His brothers had cleaned up the mess, and somewhere within the woods outside of the town, six bodies rotted slowly, picked apart by animals as rabid as he was. The bookcase was a reminder of once had been, and it amused him to think that they were so sure that a heavy piece of wood could save them.

He sat there for a long moment, ears pricked for any sounds out of the ordinary. Birds chirped outside almost merrily, in contrast to their hellish surroundings. There was a groan from outside the store, of one of the common infected, aimlessly wandering the streets with no goal in particular. The Hunter did not bother to chase those kinds, since they were far gone and no fun to pursue. They gave no fight and instead slumped like dead animals when struck. The groans certainly were annoying, but there were worse sounds he had heard.

Days such as these proved to be the most infuriating to the Hunter, and many of such days were spent prowling or sleeping, depending on how lethargic and sick he felt. Today, he felt drowsy and malaise. With his long claws clicking against the hardwood floor, he crawled back onto the couch and let out a rasping, wheezing sigh. Within moments, there was a rapid shuffling just outside one of the windows and another Hunter entered on all fours with a quick, short screech of greeting. The dosing Hunter merely glanced over, allowing himself a heaving sigh before curling up into his regular sleeping position.

The Hunter who had entered paused halfway between the window and the couch, one arm raised as though about to take a hesitant step forward. Tentatively, he sniffed the air surrounding his brother and took a small step, easing his way over. His brother made no move against him, so he finally settled into a crouch beside the couch and let out a low whine. This had been a regular occurrence when the leader of their pack took to his den without warning. One would come to him in almost pure reverence and prod at him to come back. This in mind, the Hunter at his leader's side was hesitant in almost every movement, as though he knew it was a difficult task.

He let out a quiet, murmuring chatter before nudging the Hunter with a hand, as though to urge him to get up. There was little response, other than a heaving sigh. In a bold movement, the other Hunter gripped a portion of the leader's hoodie with his teeth and yanked gently, only succeeding in moving one arm to dangle over the edge of the couch. He stopped in his pulling and let go of the cloth, looking from the arm to its owner before whining again. Finally, he sat in the silence, settling back into his crouch and lowering his head in defeat. It had been the same occurrence every time any one of them had tried. The pack leader was in no mood for hunting, or for any sort of activity they normally did. He simply would refuse to get up, no matter what form of stimulus he received.

The silence progressed until a loud cough was heard outside, and both Hunters lifted their heads in attention, awaiting another noise. The wait was not long as another sharp cough resounded, followed by a terrified scream that any Infected within the city would recognize as human. The Hunter on the couch jumped off in a sudden bound and dashed to one window, peering outside with his curiosity manifesting as a head tilt. The other Hunter followed with renewed interest, looking over his leader's shoulder.

Just outside, at the end of the street, a Smoker had a young woman constricted by the neck and was pulling hard as she choked out a scream that almost formed a name. Coming down the adjoining street was a hoard, sprinting with interest at this possible kill. The woman let out a strangled wail as one of the commons reached her, clawing blindly at her torso. With this sight before them, the other Hunter nudged his leader in question, gesturing with one claw to the woman being killed. The Hunter held still for a second before leaping from the window with a loud, piercing screech. At the sound, the Smoker paused in his choking while the hoard seemed to take a step back. However, the woman didn't seem to notice the change in mood until she was suddenly swept from the Smoker's grip by the Hunter, and smashed into the pavement below.

His nails sank into skin and muscle and he clawed at her with a fervor. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed almost unintelligible pleas for him to stop, but with no response. Behind him, the Smoker grunted and wheezed at his displeasure of having his kill stolen, while the other Hunter screeched in glee. The Hunter stopped in his ripping to bend down and secure his teeth to her neck, taking a moment to feel her pulse resounding through him. Blood rushed in her arteries and sang to him, causing him to bite down and yank away a portion of her neck. Her screams died as blood gushed onto the concrete, making thin trails as it flowed down to a sewer. Twitches and jerks took over her body as she thrashed in the last moments of her life. Her skin had gone pale and her eyes became misty before she finally stopped her movements.

The Hunter looked down at her before spitting the chunk of flesh he had had in his mouth aside and letting out a loud howl of victory for all his brothers to hear. It was no more than a few seconds before he got a loud, pleased response of screeches and howls. With this, he jumped back up to his perch, watching as a crowd of Hunters surrounded the woman's body before dragging her down the street to dispose of her where they chose. A long trail of blood followed, and the Hunter stared at that for a long while. His mind feverishly replayed the last moments of the kill, showing her terrified face and echoing her screams for mercy. The taste of blood still filled his mouth and the fluid had already begun to dry on his already stained claws.

Suddenly, dark bile filled his mouth and he vomited violently from his perch, the black liquid splattering against the ground below. He shivered and gasped, mostly in surprise, before he vomited again, his back lurching with each heave. It continued on before his heaves were dry, and he felt the need to retreat into his den. Shivers racked him as he crawled onto his couch, his breaths coming slowly and raggedly. The heat of the sickness enveloped him and he curled in on himself once again, trying desperately to find solidity and equilibrium in the turmoil that his body and mind had become.


	3. Set it Running Free

I'd like to say thank you to all those who reviewed and favorited this story, and the support I've gotten for it. You guys are the best! :) Special thanks to AlphatheWolf for his great review and for being awesome on L4D2 campaigns! Everyone should definitely go check his Left 4 Dead story. It's way rad. :D

Anyway, I suppose the only thing I can say for this chapter is that the plot does start to get underway, but very slightly. The Survivors do play a role, but the significance of that role is currently up in the air. I just write as I go along, so it's more like this story is writing itself! Also, I need to give this Hunter a name. It's getting hard to refer to him now. xD

* * *

_If you could only see the beast you've made of me._

_I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free._

* * *

On a damp concrete street, a bright orange arrow had been crookedly sprayed on the ground in a moment of what must have been desperation. Blood, now dried brown, splattered the gray space beside it, like some sort of foreboding symbolism. The Hunter was completely oblivious to it, however, as he slinked down the street to a large alcove of an old apartment building. He glanced to the wood door within the arch, and then turned away from it, deciding instead to make a leap from the ground to an opened second-story window. It was an easy jump, and he gripped onto the ledge the moment he felt it under his hands.

He sat perched on the window ledge for a moment, peering into the dusty darkness of the apartment. It smelled just as dank and musty as any of the buildings did, with a sickly sweet smell of decomposition somewhere within. Slowly, he crawled onto the floor, folding his fingers inwards so his claws would not click against the hardwood. His presence muted, he made his way toward an open door leading into the hallway. Peering out the door, he sniffed the air again, sorting through the smells once again in his head. The decomposition was farther away, the dank smell of mold was still there, but now there was a new scent, and he knew the scent well. It was salty and only slightly foul, being one he related to heat. Human sweat was somewhere within the building, and it was fresh.

The location of the sweat was difficult to pin from his position. It had already passed by his spot and he could smell it on both the stairs leading to the third floor and the stairs leading to the main floor. Testing may have been one of his only options, so he sucked in a rasping breath and let out a short, high shriek. To any Hunter, it was a shriek that meant 'I'm here, but don't come and find me', but to a human, it was a terrible sound that they should fear. A second after the shriek, he heard a low murmur from above that was abruptly silenced. This indicated there was more than one human; one to speak and one to shut the other up. A predatory sneer spread over the Hunter's face, looking malicious as the scarring on his face and the rows of pointed teeth transformed it into a mask of pure devilish intent.

Still muffling his presence, he made his way up the flight of stairs, noting with a sense of triumph that the smell had gotten significantly stronger. It was also suddenly flanked with the unmistakable scent of fresh blood. Someone had been injured, which would make that person an incredibly easy kill. Growling was a natural reflex to the Hunter, and when the scent of prey hit him, or any of his brethren for that matter, it was only commonplace to let out a growl. However, he did not want to give himself away so soon. After all, he liked to learn a little about his prey, to examine their strengths and weaknesses, as so he would be prepared. To humans, Hunters just appeared to jump, pounce, and claw. However, they also pounced and dug their claws into certain body parts, depending on what they could understand of who was their prey. Someone complaining that they needed an alcoholic drink would have a weak liver, and thus that was what the Hunters aimed for. This situation was no different.

Prowling down the hall, the scent became stronger until the Hunter located it. Just two doors away from him was what had been an apartment, but the door had been replaced with a different door, painted red and barred with reinforced steel. The Hunter had to resist snarling. He knew that door well, as he couldn't reach the people behind it very easily. It was there that they hid, giving each other medical attention and reloading their guns as to kill more of his kind. However, it made listening in on the prey very easy, and the Hunter settled himself against a wall, just out of sight, ready to pay attention to any sound or movement within the room.

Silence dominated the hall for a long while until a male voice began speaking. "It stinks," he said plainly, his voice accented just slightly with a nasally sound, almost sounding like a whine. The Hunter heard someone shift and then there was the unmistakable clicking of someone putting shells in a shotgun. He lowered his head and shifted his shoulder that had been scarred by a similar shell. Shotguns were certainly his least favorite gun.

There was more shifting and clicking before someone spoke again. This time, it was a female, also sounding nasally, but not half as much as the man. "It's not like we can take a bath or anything. Obviously, there's plenty of shit out there. You heard that shriek earlier."

"Yeah, but it's gone now. Maybe it was chasing something else," the male replied with half-interest. "The water in this place still works, and as long as that door's shut, we're safe."

"But what if a Tank comes?" she shot back.

"Then I've got a Molotov here. Sweetheart, I don't think taking a bath is going to end up in all of us dying. I've got at least six different bodily fluids on me, and God only knows what else. I'd _really_ like to wash this shit off."

There was another bout of shuffling and shifting before the sound of hard-soled shoes could be heard walking across the floor. The woman sighed, sounding exasperated. "What the hell are we gonna do with him?"

Another voice came up-also male-sounding much more bright than either of the two that had spoken before. His voice was younger and had a familiar drawl that the Hunter knew he had heard from other humans, even before the infection. "Aw, we'll be fine. Maybe takin' a bath ain't such a bad idea. It might cheer 'im up!"

"Well, yeah, maybe," the woman replied, shifting herself again. "Oh, and how's your leg? It looks like the bleeding stopped."

"Still hurts a li'l, but I can walk on it."

This made the Hunter sit up in attention. The man with the drawl was injured. That made him the opportune target. Aside from that, there were two others. The woman would be a good second target, as no matter how anyone put it, the women always seemed to be easier to claw into and put up less of a fight. The man who complained would be the last target, and even he would be easy to tear apart. He obviously cared more for himself than anyone else, so he would put up the biggest fight, but he would probably get tripped up on caring for himself and fumble somewhere in his protection.

Suddenly, a deeper male voice came up, startling the Hunter. He also carried a drawling accent, but less so than the younger male. "Boy, I can't believe ya killed that Hunter like ya did. You've gotten better than when we left Savannah!"

"Aww, thanks, Coach. I've just been practisin'."

This was cause for alarm for the Hunter. There was now a fourth member of their team, and he sounded as if he would be a challenge, perhaps based on size. Not only was this fact something to worry over, but the one who had been injured had already killed one of the Hunter's brethren, and had experience. The Hunter would have more to deal with than he initially figured. He laid still in the hallway, continuing to listen but also trying to create a plan to oust the Humans. They were going to be a problem.

Suddenly, there was a loud keening from down the hallway and a glass shattered in the distance. In the red-doored room, there was a chorus of reloading of guns the creaking of floorboards as everyone stood. A door opened within the room and the nasally man returned. "What the hell was that?"

"Sounded like a Hunter," the low-voiced man said, his voice hushed to a whisper.

The nasally man walked across the floor and the Hunter could hear him picking up a gun. The man's breath had hitched. He was nervous already.

However, the Hunter had a new problem to deal with. There was indeed another of his kind down the hall, and it was approaching, judging by the quick shuffling sound he could hear. Yet all the Hunters in his territory knew to leave the leader alone when he did his own hunting. He had even given the call for the others not to look for him. Either someone had disobeyed or they were an outsider, and the Hunter rarely tolerated outsiders.

Wood shattered at the end of the hall and the splintered remains of a door clattered as they hit the ground. A dark, hunched shape prowled out into the long space, a threatening growl rumbling in his chest. He had spotted the Hunter, and he suddenly seemed to come to the realization that he was not alone.

"It's gonna come from the left," the drawling younger man said, his voice lowered. He was automatically hushed by the woman and he obediently fell silent.

The opposing Hunter made no move forward, instead crouching near the far wall, his body language showing that he was furious that his kill would either be shared or stolen. The leader stayed still, not wishing to make his presence known yet. If the other Hunter got too close, he would make a move, but it wasn't worth giving away his position and risk either losing his kill or getting killed. The other Hunter began to pace slowly, his snarls becoming more predatory. His movements were familiar, as that of a Hunter trying to make himself intimidating, as if to say that he could leap at any time. Yet the leader was not intimidated in the least. The outsider smelled unfamiliar and moved with weakness in his muscles. He was a lesser enemy, and one that could be taken down with a quick movement of claws and teeth.

Finally, the outsider let out a shriek that the Hunter knew too well. It was a sound that meant 'get out, or I _will_ kill you', and it was common as a final warning to enemies. But the leader remained still, staring at the other Hunter almost passively. He was already set to attack, despite looking unprepared. The Hunter was never off his guard in a situation like this. Guns shifted in a wild cacophony of alertness before the outsider made a leap that went beyond the sights offered by the door and instead for the Hunter. With a jerk upwards and a great leap, the leader jumped over the outsider before whipping around with a snarl in his voice and on his face. Realization seemed to slowly dawn on the other Hunter, who backed away just for a second before shaking his head and going into another leap.

The Hunter leaped away, but mistakenly put himself within full view of the Humans behind the door. He looked up in panic, which was yet another mistake as the outsider took his chance and shoved him onto the ground, teeth bared to snap at him and claws digging into his shoulders. With a wild shriek, the Hunter shoved all his weight forward to offset the balance and send the outsider careening back. It worked, and the opposing Hunter stumbled backwards, growling in irritation before going into another leap. However, the leader was already prepared. He met the leap with one of his own, knocking the other Hunter in midair and sending him to the ground with a sickening crack to his skull. The outsider let out a loud, strained yelp of pain and struggled to get back up, but the Hunter had him pinned down completely, with little room to escape. He snarled down at his enemy, saliva and bile dripping from his mouth.

"What the hell-" was all the Hunter heard from the Humans before he dug his teeth into the junction of the other Hunter's neck and shoulder. The points of his teeth ripped through the fabric of the hoodie and straight into the skin and muscle. Blood began soaking the cloth and smeared across the Hunter's face like macabre war paint as he moved his head away to tear a large chunk of the outsider's throat out. He spat out the infected flesh before looking down at the enemy. Truly, he was now dead, empty eye sockets wide and mouth agape with blood pouring from the corners and from his nostrils. The heat of their infected life had left him, and now he was just one more rotting corpse in the city.

Slowly, the Hunter turned to look at the Humans in the red-doored room, but none of them made a move to shoot, despite holding their guns at the ready. One of them with a young face and a hat turned to look at a man in a white suit with either concern or fear, and the man could only shrug, his eyes wide. Despite the stillness, the Hunter still noticed the barrels of the guns aimed at him, and knew he stood no chance this time around. He turned his head away from them quickly before making a series of bounds down the hallway to an open window at the end. Smashing the already cracked glass with his elbow, he leaped out with a shriek, leaving the apartment building in complete silence, save for the shaky breathing of the Humans.


	4. Like Some Child Possessed

I honestly apologize for how long it took me to write this chapter. :( I hit a little snag in my writing, and gave myself a break for a few days. In that time, I started the beginning of another fic I might post up here one day. :D

Anyway, the next chapter is going to be a quick reflection on how the Hunter got to where he is, and the transition from average human being to Hunter. :3

* * *

_Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins._

_I want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness._

* * *

Hours had passed since the Hunter had fled from the Humans, blood still smeared across his face and eyes still glowing with anger that his assault had been interrupted. Instead of returning to the furniture store, he instead chose to prowl about the streets, not even bothering to camouflage himself, as no one else was in the city save for those in the red-doored room. Rain had begun to fall in a misty torrent from a steel-gray sky, soaking the landscape and making it appear even more dismally monochrome than it had already appeared.

He slinked past a group of Commons, sitting or standing idly by a chain-link fence surrounding a parking lot. One of them vomited out a dark, viscous fluid before wheezing and standing up with a hunch to his shoulders before staggering away to join another one of his kind in leaning up against the fence. The Hunter found their type pitiful. They were sick constantly, and therefore had little purpose other than to loiter around and attack those who did not have the sickness. They died easily and their corpses made the city stink even more than it already did. Hunters had a sense of self-preservation, knowing that gunshots meant pain and death, so they hid from them. Those common sick ones knew nothing of holding onto their lives. Perhaps that was why they did what they did; they no longer wanted to live.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, with the lightning too far away to be seen. The Hunter usually had no aversion to rain, but the feverish heat within him was coming back in large waves, and dizziness was beginning to seize him with every step. He allowed himself to whine in irritation as he began scanning for a place to step in out of the rain.

With a snarl, he stood up and attempted to shake off what rainwater had collected on the fabric of his clothing. The cold was already seeping into the cloth, touching his skin and causing immediate irritation. He growled at the sensation and ducked under the awning of an abandoned store. The door to the store was locked tight and the glass was still intact, so he threw his weight against the door repeatedly until wood splintered and glass shattered, leaving a decent hole in one door for him to enter.

The store looked as though it had been frozen the moment the sickness had spread throughout the city. Racks of clothes were placed aesthetically and colorful bottles of perfume lined the walls, glinting in the dim light that the city's generators were able to sputter out. A cash register still blinked side-scrolling words welcoming customers, though the customers had all died out long ago. Behind the register's desk, a large bulletin board hung from the wall, advertising other stores, upcoming events in the city, and items being sold by citizens. Pinned up in the top right corner was a paper with a child's drawing, showing two happy stick figures holding hands, the word 'Mommy' written above the tallest one. The Hunter stared at the picture for a long while, trying to make sense of it. However, the meaning felt lost, which frustrated him immensely. He snarled and turned away from it, crawling under a clothing rack and settling down with a huff.

Rain hissed outside, pattering loudly against the awning and the windows. He watched lazily as it slid down the panes, making strange, fractal images of the outside world. The air was still mildly warm, as with the fringes of fall still riding on it, and it pushed with a breeze through the hole in the door. The Hunter lowered his head, content there was no danger outside on a day like today, let alone if there were any other Survivors out there. Keeping his arms folded in front of him and his legs stretched out behind, he felt himself slowly sliding into a tired state, with the fever edging his tattered nerves.

'_Gri-_'

His head snapped up, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Slinking out from under the clothes, he sniffed the air, his head turning left and right. There were no smells that were out of the ordinary, nor any feeling that something was out of place. He let out a warning growl, just in case it was needed, before crawling back under the clothing rack, settling into a position that was both relaxing, yet if need be, would allow him to jump to safety or attack. He allowed himself to ease back into rest, knowing that it would be a while before he could make it back to his den and sleep was something he needed desperately if he wished to fight off the fever that had plagued him for as long as he had been sick.

* * *

At first, there was just a slight tremor that shuddered through the ground, only doing so much as making the Hunter whine in his sleep. Then, there was a crash from outside, followed by a piercing scream. The Hunter awoke immediately, lifting his head and sniffing at the air once more. This time, there was a terrible, rotting smell in the air unlike anything he had smelled before. He recoiled and snarled, standing up slowly and prowling to one of the windows to see if there was any source of the smell and the sounds. However, all he saw was the rain-soaked street. Another tremor ran under his claws and he growled lowly, slowly coming to the realization as to what had awoken him. One of those gigantic beasts the Humans called 'Tank' was around. In a city dominated mostly by the smaller strains of the Infection, Tanks were unwelcome.

The Hunter was not one to attack a Tank unassisted, as he had seen larger Infected be tossed aside like mere toys before, their heads smashing to the pavement and shattering with sprays of blood as though their skulls were made of glass. One of his kind could not take down a Tank, but several could. Crawling back outside through the hole he made in the door, the Hunter let out a shrieking howl that was a call for his brothers to assemble. Several seconds after the call was made, it was met by other shrieks and growls, all followed by several dark shapes appearing on the edges of roofs and walls like gargoyles. He surged forward, a violent gesture towards the prey.

Guns chattered wildly as the group of Hunters neared the overpowering scent of the Tank. The roar of the beast was unmistakable, and the ground trembled once more as it moved back and forth, chasing after a scattering of survivors. Once the Hunter caught it within his sights, he couldn't help but recoil. The thing was enormous, with a large sheet of skin completely torn away on its left side and back, revealing pulsating and rotting muscle, rendered into disgusting shades of dark red, brown, and a pus-colored green. It looked furious, with milky eyes blazing as it snarled and threw itself back and forth. The Hunter then looked to the Humans, and had to look harder upon realizing they had been the very same that had been inside the red-doored room.

They hardly noticed the pack of Hunters, instead being far more focused on the monster that was approaching them. Several of the Hunters began to stray toward the Humans, until the Hunter snarled a warning at them, getting their attention on the Tank instead. Like flies to a corpse, they swarmed, claws extended and teeth bared. They attacked in droves, leaping on the beast with snarls and shrieks. It tried to fling them off, but they rebounded as fast as they had been discarded. The Hunter was certainly at no loss for fighting it, going into a spectacular leap and landing on its shoulders. His back foot slipped on the oozing flesh of its back, but he kept his claws secure in its flesh, ripping at it with a wild fervor.

The Tank howled in agony, riddled with gunshots and claw marks, rims of teeth securely printed into its scarred flesh. It angrily began advancing on the Humans, letting out such a roar that the Hunter felt it reverberating in his arms. With a territorial shriek, the Hunter leapt up a little farther onto the Tank's shoulders, his claws wrenching firmly into its eyes. Another roar was ripped from the hulking mass of muscle, and the Hunter could feel a hot, thick fluid running down his claws as the Tank was rendered blind. It shook and jumped, trying to get the offending thing off its back, but to no avail.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang through the air like a toll of a bell, and the monster went still, careening to the ground and landing face-first onto the cement. The Hunter crawled off the oversize corpse and looked at its midsection, finding a crass-looking hole at the thinnest part of its torso. The hole was dripping with hot blood, sizzling as though it had been scorched. Shattered bone could be seen within the hole, broken like wooden shards. It would have only been a matter of time before the Tank would have died. The coup de grâce of the Humans was the final blow, no matter.

He turned his head to the Humans, seeing the finial weapon resting in the hands of the one in the white suit. The gun was still aiming, and was now pointing directly at the Hunter's head. A quick look around revealed that not only was the Tank in the ranks of the officially dead, but three Hunters had also met the same fate, and the others had run. There was no positive chance of escaping. However, the boy in the yellow shirt and hat put his hand on top of the barrel of the gun, forcibly lowering it and shaking his head. The white-suited man glared at the boy, words flying out of his mouth faster than the Hunter could understand them. Yet it wasn't the words he was paying attention to, but what had just been done. For the second time in his wretched, Infected existence, he had been spared death. The only wounds sustained this time around were rips on the fabric of his hoodie, stained with blood from a stray hit from the Tank.

The white-suited man glared at the Hunter, his voice raised. "Goddamnit, get out of here before I change my mind!" he yelled. The Hunter could understand that, and the meaning was certainly not lost. With a shriek, he leapt out of the way, sprinting on all fours to return to the furniture store that was now seemingly his only safety.

His mind raced as fast as he did, fighting past the mental rot and the rabid thoughts of murdering and clawing and _blood_. He had been _spared_. The gun had been turned _away_. He wasn't going to _die._ Understanding all this was near painful, and he gave another frustrated shriek as he made a jump onto the ledge of his den. Perching there for a moment, he looked out onto the rain-drenched landscape, the smell of rot high in the air. Humans and Infected alike lay dead, strewn out like dolls tossed away from play and forgotten. Nature had begun reclaiming the land, stretching out vined fingers and stealing the flickering life away from the city. Yet for all this, _he_ had been spared. The world just didn't make sense anymore.


	5. Curse That Falls on Young Lovers

I apologize for the length of this chapter. Initially, it rounded out to around 1200 words, and at first I was alright with this because the subject at hand seemed rather heavy. However, I suddenly wasn't comfortable with how short it _looked_ so I added a few things here and there until it got above the 1500 word minimum I like to set for myself.

So, our Hunter finally has a name, graciously suggested by 11 Crimson Rubies! I'm not very sure I'll refer to him as that later, since, I don't know, perhaps there's some air of mystery or loss of identity. What do you guys think?

Also, I'm sure his passion in his human life is fairly obvious. Being a mythology lover myself, I couldn't help but draw a few comparisons! For those confused by the references, here's a quick guide!

Odysseus and the Sirens - In Homer's _the Odyssey_, the hero Odysseus knows that a group of singing women of the sea are near, and their song is so irresistible that sailors crash their ships into the rocks because they get distracted. However, he was incredibly smart so he commanded his men to put wax in their ears so they wouldn't hear, but he wanted to hear them so he forced his men to tie him to a mast so he could hear them but not cause the ship to crash. Selfish little smart guy. :)

Perseus and Medusa - Medusa was a Gorgon in Greek mythology, as a woman with hair made of living snakes. To look into her eyes was enough to turn anyone to stone. Perseus, however, figured out then if you looked into her eyes through a mirror, it was harmless. So he went into her lair and looked at her with the reflection of his shield and was able to see her well enough to cut her snakey little head off.

Ragnarok and the End of the Age of Man - The two respective terms for the apocalypse in Norse and Greek mythology.

Thesus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur - The minotaur was this nasty bull man who lived in a labyrinth and devoured virgins offered to him so he wouldn't go on a killing rampage. Ariadne was King Minos' daughter, who was the owner of the labyrinth. She knew all the secrets of it and was able to tell her future lover, Theseus, how to get through it and kill the minotaur. (Also, anyone who has seen the move 'Inception' should be able to recognize Ariadne right away! xD)

Super long author's note over! I'm sure I made plenty more for my word count with this thing alone! xD Enjoy!

* * *

_Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers._

_Starts so soft and sweet and turns them into hunters._

_Hunters, hunters, hunters..._

* * *

A thunderstorm had come in during the course of the night, isolating itself right over the top of the city like a dark spirit. Lightning lit up the sky in spiderwebs of illumination, with the crackling thunder at its heels. The rain came down in torrents, slanting its way to the earth, its arrival revealed by the dim orange vapor lights still providing light futilely.

Within the furniture store, the Hunter was burrowed under the ratted blanket he had found, hardly paying attention to the raging weather outside. He could see the lightning casting eerie shadows across the room, but the strangeness of at all did not occur to him. Instead, his eyelids shut slowly, then opened quickly, only to shut again. Feverish heat was sweeping through him again, exhausting him to the point that he hardly had the will to move. With each tortuous wave of the inner inferno, images stuttered through his mind, replaying onto some sort of tattered screen within, holes so obvious that the pictures seemed to make no sense. They were dark and blurry, accompanied with distorted hisses of sounds and muddled with confusing thoughts of pouncing and shrieking and blood running on damp cement.

A soft, murmured sort of chatter came from his mouth from sheer irritation. His teeth clacked once before he kept his mouth shut, panting breath coming through gaps in his lips where the flesh had been torn away. Blood was still in his mouth, mixed with a gritty remainder of vomit and churning with hot saliva. The concoction was ghastly, but he could barely taste it, choosing instead to let the mixture leak out onto the fabric of the sofa into a dark stain.

He tried to battle the welcoming feeling of sleep, knowing that somewhere in that dark expanse he would be in, there would be more frustrating pictures that he didn't recognize. Or perhaps, he would remember something, but forget the second he woke up. He hated to dream, though he did not know what dreaming was anymore. To him, it was a strange, dark place where lights flickered until he felt nauseous and sounds were unbearable. Dreaming meant anger, and anger made him tired once he did wake up.

However, the sound of the rain pattering against the remaining windows and trickling through the holes in the plywood coverings was soothing and hypnotic. Low rumbles of thunder provided a sweet sort of percussion, and the overwhelming heat in his rotting body was enough to cause him to fall into a most uneasy rest.

* * *

_'Gri-'_

_That voice again. A girl, isn't it? A pretty girl, with hair like the sun and eyes like the sky, who keeps flowers in her hair and puts her arms around you, laughing and singing and speaking so sweetly. You still love her, don't you? You have a ring waiting for her, but aren't you still scared? She's so beautiful, and you're so plain compared to her._

_You met among words of stars and music, comparing myths to the world you live in now. She is like a siren, and you are Odysseus. You know you shouldn't be drawn in yet, or not at this age. However, you tie yourself down and listen. Naturally, you fell in love. You were an adventurer, jumping from the tops of buildings and somersaulting and flipping around like a gymnast on a springboard. She was so delighted with you, and eventually, she was the one to put the tape on your sweatshirt. She loved to watch._

_Then, the myths go rotten. Perseus looks into the eyes of Medusa. The last evils escape Pandora's Box. Ragnarok has come. The Age of Man is over. Soon, you are plagued, and you are filled with that same horrible inferno that only Dante could describe. You scream and cry out and claw yourself until you bleed. You gnash your teeth and shriek until you don't know your own voice anymore. _

_People run from you and cry, and then fall before you like virgins to the Minotaur. Once, you were Theseus, in love with Ariadne and confident that you knew your way through the Labyrinth. But now, you are the Minotaur, and soon, Ariadne is at your mercy. You see her before you, blue eyes filled with pretty tears and lovely face flushed with pure fear. She tries to beg for her life, but the words are stolen away when you tear into her throat, drinking her essence and savoring that beautiful draining heartbeat until with a final gasp, she is nothing more than a shell._

_Finally, you sit up to look at her, and through all that, you suddenly see the horror of what you have done. The ring sits on her finger still, the diamond now dripping red with her blood. She loved you once, for the man you were, and perhaps for the monster you had become. Now, she is dead. There is no god waiting to turn her into stars so you can see her every night. There is no one alive now to write an epitaph so perfect that not a soul could forget her. She is just a lovely, rotting corpse, her heat stolen and given to you._

_With a terrible shriek, you run away, never looking back to her prone, dead form. Your arms and legs move in tandem, no threat of pain daring to infringe on your sprint. Your limbs are more powerful than they have ever been, and making a jump to the roof of a two-story building is a feat you dare and accomplish. However, that feeling of accomplishment is lost as her blood still runs down your chin and onto the sweatshirt, still taped by her hands. _

_Crawling out onto a looming statue at the corner of the building, you find your balance without a thought. The city before you is already a churning mass of humanity, boiling and screaming as the dying kill the living. There are others like you down there, running among the sick and picking off the weakest like wolves. You can't compare yourselves to them, since that horrible thing called 'sense' is still with you, even though it's fading fast._

_Below your claws, the statue is still as ever. Its front is that of an eagle, accompanied by similar wings. The body is that of a lion, back legs already primed for attack, just as you are. You know this statue already, but the memory is already stained by blood and soon will be nothing but just another shade of red._

_A griffin._

_Griffin._

_'Gri-'_

_

* * *

_He awoke with a shriek, claws tearing into the fabric and back arched. Already, he knew there wasn't any threat in the store, but it took a great deal of effort to finally settle back down onto the sofa. This hadn't been the first time he had woken up in such a state, and like before, he could remember nothing of what he had dreamed. Frustrated, he snarled and slumped onto his side, seeing only the back of the sofa light up with a brief shock of lightning outside, accompanied by a booming report of thunder. The rain was coming down hard, splattering to the ground with a sound akin to repeat gunfire. He couldn't think of what sound he was more familiar with.

Long ago, the notion of nightmares had deserted him, along with dreams and memories. Thoughts were strange things, coming in the form of garbled words and stutters, clearer in picture than in logic. He thought out plans like a story, with landmarks and wavering images of what he thought the near future would be. Even with this, his mind was often muddled and burning away with fever. Sleep had never offered much reprieve, and being awake was no more help than that.

With a whine, he sat back up, finding himself unwilling to sleep again. The sickness pulsed through every decomposing vein, feeding into some sort of infected well within, threatening to drag him in and drown him until any humanity he once had would be gone. All he could do was whine and pace and snarl, fighting it in vain. He crawled off the couch and onto a windowsill, hissing as lightning spider-webbed above him. There was no longer comfort in his den at the moment, and often he chose to move when the malaise set in, even during the worst sort of weather. With a long leap, he hit the wet ground, rain already soaking into his clothes. Hissing again, he fell into a well-paced sprint, keeping his nose to the air for another spot to sleep in where the sickness wasn't present in every fiber and particle.


End file.
